The Blood of a Village
by EveryEye
Summary: ...resides in its people. Lives in 600 words or less. One character per chapter. Chapter 9 A Lonely God: He had always understood that his perspective was a bit off--and it was NOT because he was short.
1. A Dying Soul

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, and am not making any profit.

A Dying Soul

Sasuke lived for the dead.

This, he told himself, set him apart from the rest of the world. His mind was focused so far back, he couldn't move forward. He was filled with so much hatred, there was no room in his heart for love. He had no future—no present even. Only the cold, unchangeable past.

It was his denial of the present that allowed him to withstand his first three months in Sound. Whatever happened in any given moment, no matter how painful, humiliating, or degrading, Sasuke told himself he could not be affected by events so wholly a part of a world in which he had no place. And so, day by day he let events happen as if to someone else, his mind registering nothing but the growth of his power.

His silent acceptance changed the day Kabuto brought in the first practice victim, stripped of clothes and chained at the neck. Sasuke flatly refused—human subjects where not necessary for testing technique impact.

_You can't know what any given jutsu will do to human flesh before you try, _Orochimaru said. _You will do this, or I will not teach you anything more._

For two straight months Sasuke held his refusal, until it became unbearably clear to him that Orochimaru wasn't working on borrowed time, like _he_ was. Orochimaru's dead brethren did not whisper in his ears at night--did not urge him relentlessly forwards. Orochimaru had _other_ monsters under his bed, ones that he was much more comfortable with than Sasuke was with his.

One night, while he stared at the cracked ceiling about his bed, Orochimaru's sibilant voice hissed in his ear, _You must sacrifice in order to become stronger. You seek the highest power imaginable. What higher sacrifice is there than a human life? _A thin smile he could feel on his skin. _Don't turn away now. You knew the price for power when you came to me, did you not?_

The next day—without hesitation, least he change his mind or show some weakness—Sasuke drove a fistful of altered chakra through a man's left temple. He crumpled like a dead leaf, and what was left of his body splattered to the floor. Only a slight twitch of Sasuke's right eyebrow belied his distress.

_Ku-ku-ku…Never fear, Sasuke-kun. The next one will be easier._ And Orochimaru was right. It was.

Sasuke lived for the dead. And little by little, he was dying for the dead as well.

Next Time: A Nice Guy


	2. A Nice Guy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, and am not making any profit.

A Nice Guy

Gai was in the Springtime of his youth. Of this, there was no question. Anyone who had held doubts were firmly convinced after the 10-mile, frozen-river, naked swimming marathon he had enthusiastically endured after his loss to Kakashi at ping-pong. Everyone agreed that Winter's Cold could not touch the heart of the Green Beast of Konoha.

Which was why it was so strange when the words "You're to blame for Sasuke's betrayal," fell from his mouth, with out any preamble or "eternal rival" nonsense. The hurtful words, the stance of his body, the hard look of his face were the epitome of unyouthfullness.

Kakashi said nothing, standing perfectly still with his back turned to the spandex-clad warrior. A civilian observer might have thought he was ignoring Gai—which on a usual day was a common state of affairs. But a ninja would have noticed the way Kakashi held his breaths a wee bit longer before releasing them than normal, or the slight narrowing of his visible eye.

"Fight me now, or be named a traitor yourself."

He almost couldn't finish the sentence before Kakashi's fist connected with his right cheek.

Their fight was the most brutal show of taijustu Konoha had ever witnessed between two ninjas of the same village. It was made all the more bloody that Gai didn't truly fight back, or even block his competitor's attacks properly.

And when it was over, and Gai's bruised arms strained to keep his broken face above the grit of the road, Kakashi bent down and quietly whispered, "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Of course I did, my rival," Gai struggled to say past bloody teeth. "And while the fight maybe yours, the challenge to break your brooding silence is clearly my victory. Our rivalry is still at a tie."

Kakashi did not respond, but as his eye crinkled into a slight smile, Gai decided this type of silence was much more youthful than the kind his rival had lapsed into since Sasuke's defection. This realization, of course, sent Gai into a water-fall-of-tears display in front of a setting sun, and Kakashi quickly evaporated into the gathering crowd to avoid any uncomfortable over-sentimentality that Gai's presence seemed to demand.

Gai felt a tug on his wrist, and looked to see—of all people—Mitirashi Anko trying to help him rise, with Kurenai lifting his other arm. When at last he could finally stand on his wobbly legs, a sharp-smiled Anko said, "Did anyone ever tell you that you were a nice guy?"

Gai, on the verge of losing consciousness, made sure to give both ladies a sparkly thumbs-up before passing out between them.

Author's Note: I know that unyouthfullness isn't a real word—it's a Gai word.


	3. A Hopeless Drunk

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, and am not making any profit.

A Hopeless Drunk

It had been many years since sake ceased to burn her throat on its way from her saucer to her stomach.

There was a time when she had forced it down, burn and all, in spite of the noxious smell of iodine and chemicals she imagined the liquor emitted. She had carefully ignored them; they reminded her too much of the hospitals she was forcibly trying to forget.

Once, she would have said that it was her memories that were the problem, the crux. She would have spoken of the pain in her chest when someone smiled at her and all she could think of Nawaki's un-smiling face when she pulled the sheet away. She might have mentioned the way she couldn't breath when she smelled blood, and how she had started making ridiculous excuses to avoid the hospital. And, if she was feeling especially bloody-minded, she would even explain how she was afraid she could never look Jiraiya in the face again because the first and last time he kissed her all she could think of was _him,_ and that the emptiness was so heavy and crushing that she had to run as far from Jiraiya and the memory as she could—all the way out of Konoha.

Of course, these are not stories she would have recounted out loudFor all these words in her mouth, all these confessions of the images behind her eyes, she relentlessly pushed them back down her throat with sake so that no one would ever _know._

Now a days, of course, she doesn't need the sake to forget. Without its help, she has already forgotten the feeling of contentment she had treasured as she laid in Dan's arms, and the exact tone of Nawaki's voice, and what her eyes used to look like before she lost them both. Now a days, she needs the sake to _remember:_ What it was like to feel carefree, guiltless, happy.

As she was tipping her saucer to her lips once more, Jiraiya sat down heavily on the stool next her—like he had every evening since she had returned to Konoha—and the clear liquid slopped down the front of her shirt. "Here, let me get that for you," he said with a lecherous grin, napkin angling towards her cleavage.

Despite her depressing thoughts when drinking, the one thing that Tsunade _always_ remembered was to slap his hand away just in time, and to conceal her smirk poorly least he be discouraged from trying it again in the future.

Next Time: A Shameless Pervert


	4. A Shameless Pervert

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story (big shocker, right?), and am making no profit from it (who would pay to read this?).

Author's Note: This chapter and "A Hopeless Drunk" overlap each other. These are probably the only two that will link together like this…I say now.

A Shameless Pervert

He found her in the bar.

She was tipping a saucer to her lips—probably for the 400th time that evening, if he knew her. And if there was one person left alive that he understood, it was her.

Jiraiya sat down heavily on the stool next her—like he had every evening since her return to Konoha—and the clear liquid in her saucer slopped down the front of her shirt. He would be lying if he said that wasn't his aim. But then again, Jiraiya had never felt the need to be coy or vague about his intent.

"Here, let me get that for you," he said, his most charming smile in place. His most charming smile moonlit as his dirtiest leer, but when you're the Great Jiraiya you have to be versatile. He picked up a napkin to dab at the stain on her shirt.

Snap! As expected, she slapped his hand away before he could clean up the mess he'd made. "Behave yourself," she said tersely. But her smirk belied her appreciation of his company.

"Tsunade-hime, I can assure you that I am a perfect gentleman. And if you don't take _my _honest word for it, I can direct you to any number of ladies that would be happy to confirm it." His words were spoiled by the grin that he hadn't let slip from his face. "Sake, please."

The bartender, eyeing the swaying Hokage suspiciously, simply slid Tsunade's sake over to Jiraiya, and gave him a fresh saucer. As Jiraiya barked with laughter, Tsunade squinted in indignation at the bartender, but said nothing. She unsteadily reached over and poured herself a new saucer of the now communal sake. "You're contributing to the bill." Jiraiya only grunted noncommittally.

They drank in silence until the sake jug ran out, and Tsunade finally had the courage to ask, "Why do you come here all the time?"

"To see you, of course."

"You say that every time," she pouted, in the way only a completely drunk Tsunade can. "You've seen me. Why do you always stick around and drink my booze?"

"Because I haven't actually seen you yet," he replied. "Not the real Tsunade-hime, anyway."

"Hn," she snorted, disbelieving. That was okay. He didn't tell her this when she'd been drinking because he thought she would be more inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"It's alright," he said, smiling at her over his drink. "I can wait."

Next Time: A Scarred Inquisitor

Author's Note: From here on out, I'm hoping the Chapter names will be a little harder to guess. This one, of course, is easy.


	5. A Scarred Inquisitor

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, and am making no profit from it.

Author's Note: I think I'm misspelling the rankings, but I'm too lazy to check.

A Scarred Inquisitor

They all talked.

He had seen every type of ninja there was to see in the endless parade of prisoners they passed before him. Defiant men. Frightened boys. Women who tried to seduce him. Girls convinced he would rape them. Careless Jounin, unlucky chunin, and inexperienced genin. The only thing, the thin thread that united them all, was that in the end he had broken each and every one.

_He's got massive head injuries. We can't attempt extraction here. We need to stabilize his neck or the screws may shift during transport._

Inside a person's head was a strange place to be. That is, once the person's mind was turned inside-out. Every time Ibiki saw someone with tinted glasses, he was reminded of a prisoner he had held captive in the spring of his fourth year as the head of the interrogation unit. After confessing his mission and its benefactor, the ninja had tearfully continued to tell Ibiki of when he was five years old and had secretly killed his pet so that he didn't have to care for it anymore. Even after Ibiki had left, the man's broken voice continued, carrying up the hallway as he shouted at the ceiling how she had been flirting with him, he swore it, and he didn't really _force _her…

Ibiki doesn't know what happened to the man, in the end. He doesn't do clean-up, and he doesn't want to. Turning a mind back right-side-out isn't like doing laundry, after all.

"_Do you remember what your name is?"_

"…"

"_Do you know how old you are?"_

"…"

"_Do you understand what's happened to you?" _

"…"

"_Do you understand that the damage to your brain cannot be assessed at this time, and that we'll have to keep you here under observation for a while?"_

"…"

Ibiki's scalp itched all the time, but he didn't dare scratch it. To do that, he would have had to remove his bandana—and that was an action he reserved for scaring kids in Chunin exams. When they started and gasped, too surprised to withhold their shock, he felt validated. His scars were horrible because his will was made of iron. He was different from the pathetic captives that came in front him because he _had not talked. _His scars were his proof, his reassurance.

But while he was proud of them, in his own way, he disliked the way the other jounin politely looked away when they were revealed.

_The Third Hokage stared at him evenly, benevolently, waiting for the words no one else could retrieve. Ibiki stared back, looking for the first time unsure about his silence._

"_Sandaime," his voice croaked at last, rough with disuse._

_The Hokage smiled, and puffed at his pipe, despite being in a hospital. "Yes?"_

"_I didn't talk," he blurted out._

_The Hokage smiled wider, and took another puff. "I knew that you hadn't."_

_Ibiki sat there blinking. "But they all talk. If you do it right, all of them talk."_

"_No, Ibiki. When _you_ do it, all of them talk," said the Hokage. Then he pressed Ibiki's forehead protector into his hand, and quietly shuffled away._

Next Time: A Loud Mouth

Author's Note: Thanks to TaurenLeaf and Owellet for the reviews!


	6. A Hard Woman

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Nothing!

A Hard Woman

The planes of her body were hard, angular. She had feminine curves at one time, but she could hardly remember seeing them as they passed in that vague period between awkward adolescence and the tough toning of a killer's body. On any given day, she didn't miss them.

Today was not one of those days.

The fishnet she wore to soften her sharp lines was hiked up at the waist, and her lover's hand was sliding steadily upwards beneath it. She tensed, wondering if he would find the muscle tone of her abdomen unfeminine, then tensed again with anger when she realized the ridiculousness of that thought.

In public, Anko was so aggressively loud that she scared away most of her relatively normal peers. It seemed a non-sequitur that she would be self-conscious behind closed doors, but it was always there beneath the surface, an artifact of her sensei's betrayal.

_I will find a more excellent child._

Anko was a curious animal. Her actions, words, and body language screamed of confidence and might, of surety of fighting skills and a violent nature. And it was no fraud. Anko _the ninja_ had a bite as good as her bark. However, Anko _the woman _paled in her shadow, and grew stunted in the dark as Anko _the ninja_ constantly reminded the world she wasn't to be fucked with, and that anyone who came too close would lose an appendage.

She had wanted this man for months now. And after all the effort she put into suppressing the impulse to scare him away, she finally had him.

His hand pressed into her hip, and she pressed her eyes tightly together, willing the memory of sharp teeth in her neck to go away and let her for _once_ just enjoy the feeling of another person's touch. But despite her best efforts to consciously relax, her muscles bunched and tightened, making her movements jerky and awkward, her body stiff.

Her stiffness was not lost on him. "Anko," he whispered huskily, his breath lingering in the shell of her ear. She was so busy thinking about _not_ thinking that her name didn't register in her mind.

"Anko," more insistently.

"…Hmmm?" Her voice sounded small to her. Wavering.

"Look at me." Reluctantly, she did. Not that she could see him too well when they were nose to nose.

"You okay? Do you want me to stop?" he said. Soft, low. Sincere.

"I… I…" _I want to be whole. _Anko _the woman_ struggled, unable to explain. She looked away from his heavy-lidded eyes. Why was everything _always _so damn hard?

As her verbal floundering lapsed into uncomfortable silence, he readjusted her skirt back to its original, more acceptable state of indecency and brushed a hand across her cheek. "Maybe another time." Like a true ninja, he didn't make a sound on his way out.

She, on the other hand, made enough noise in her frustration to wake the dead. After slamming her fist through her window, she leapt out into the moonlight and ran for the training grounds.

She sat where it all began, where Orochimaru had named her his apprentice, and gouged holes in the dirt with a kunai, thinking that a body that had become as hard as hers shouldn't still feel so much pain.


	7. A Broken Man

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story (no surprise), and am making no profit from it (so poor!).

A Broken Man

If Kakashi were ever to turn out his pockets, a myriad of secrets would come tumbling out. Unwilling to look at them, unable to let them go, he keeps these secrets tucked next to his shuriken and summoning scrolls, and dread when his fingers brush past them in the heat of battle.

The worst secret: It was not Kakashi's memory of Obito that opened a gulf of unrequited love between himself and Rin—it was hers.

Kakashi had never—would never—be able to properly describe the pain he felt in his heart when Obito died. It was wide—a rushing river, a stampeding herd. He teetered on the edge of it, scared of being pulled in and under, and the only thing left for him to grab onto and save himself was her. He knew that Rin had harbored feelings for him for quite a while, but this knowledge had never seemed as direly important as it did in the weeks after Obito's death.

In the aftermath of their first mission together as a team of two, bathed in the blood of their enemies and each other, Kakashi pushed Rin against a tree and kissed her, hard. Alive.

People say that such moments happen instantaneously, or last for eternity, or both. But Kakashi knows that the kiss lasted exactly 7 seconds before she started to cry. "It's _not_ fair. It's not _fair._ I wanted you to kiss me for so long, and I wanted Obito to understand so badly." He tried to grab her shaking shoulders, but she was a kunoichi, after all, and pushed him away easily. "You _can't_, Kakashi. You can't kiss me like that, while he watches. It will hurt him more that anything."

When Kakashi thinks back on the incident, he remembers taking a moment to understand that she was referring to the Sharingan he had inherited. It is a manufactured memory. In truth, he had known instantly. He had already woken up numerous mornings only to deal with someone else's stare in the mirror.

After that, Kakashi and Rin never went on two-man missions again. To this day, he suspects she made a special request of the Hokage behind his back.

Another secret: His assertion that he covers Obito's Sharingan with his forehead protector because it is a drain on his chakra is a lie. He covers it because he can't live with the suspicion that people looking him in the eyes are seeing _him _instead.

The third secret: Kakashi has had several crushes on Konoha kunoichi over the years. However, the objects of his affections will never know, because he will never tell them.

He has already decided that he will be alone, always.

It is not because he rejects the idea of Shinobi relationships, _per say._ However, he cannot ignore the voice that whispers in the back of his mind when he can't sleep at night. What the voice says is this: _If you truly care for the her, avoid her. Association with you is a curse._

The worst crush he had, it took him four days in the tree outside her apartment complex to accept that the voice was right.

The fourth secret: To the young people of Konoha, Kakashi is a number of things: a powerful ninja, a valuable asset, a mysterious puzzle. He would agree with all of these, but especially the last. This is because he recognizes a puzzle for what it really is—a broken, shattered picture, its image jumbled, its meaning lost.

Author's Note: I'm not quite happy with this chapter, but I didn't want to sit on it any longer. It may have another edit in its future.


	8. A Steadfast Spirit

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, I'm just borrowing them for my own evil purposes—which do not include profit.

A Steadfast Spirit

Every morning it was the same. He rose from his bed before the sun rose in the sky, only to fall to the ground and do 300 one-handed push-ups. If he couldn't finish those, he would have to do 300 sit-ups. If he couldn't finish those…well, the fact that he hadn't gone to the bathroom yet was usually a good enough incentive to finish the sit-ups.

After his morning exercises, he showered, dressed, and then…_then_ he faced his reflection in the mirror.

Lee could not remember when the "Nice Guy Pose—Mirror Version" became part of his morning ritual. When he was younger, he avoided his reflection at all costs, wherever it could crop up—bathroom mirrors, windows, puddles, or even the occasional piece of armor. And while his seemingly spontaneous dodging, rolling, or running from these objects probably only fueled the teasing remarks thrown at him, he'd rather take their barbs and dismiss them than confront a mirror and find out they were true.

While he was many things, Rock Lee was _not_ deaf. He heard how the other students at the academy talked about him—or worse, how his teachers talked about him—and he did his best not to take it to heart. But Lee's heart was large and fragile, so though ignoring the insults was sometimes possible, most of the time it was hard. The fact that they were rooted in _truths_ only made things more unbearable. Comments about his failure at ninjitsu and genjustu, for example, seared like a third-degree burn that no salve, not even training, could completely heal, because it was clear even to himself that they were right.

'_How do you stand it, everyone making fun of you like that? Can't you feel their stares on you?'_

_His sensei's laughter cracked and rumbled like a rolling storm. Gai would have called it youthful, but to Lee it sounded suspiciously older—wiser. 'Of course! Let their arrows break upon my youthful spirit. My worth as a ninja has been proven time and again.' _

_Lee scowled. Sometimes he wondered if Gai intentionally misunderstood. 'Yes, sensei, your record shows you're an excellent ninja. I meant making fun of your hair, and your clothes.' _

_Gai's face morphed so fast into a serious expression, Lee didn't see it move. 'Lee, listen carefully to this burning message, and encase it in your heart. No man ever made a difference by being the same as everyone else.'_

_It was soon after this talk that Lee uncovered the mirror in his bathroom._

His teeth sparkled in the mirror before him, brighter than a gem. Resolutely, he gazed at the man that was gazing at him, straight and strong, proud at last, and recited his Way of the Ninja—a promise of himself, to himself.

Every morning it was the same. Today was going to be a great day.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or alert-listed this story, and put up with my irregular updates. You guys are aces!


	9. A Lonely God

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story, and as such I am not making any money from these ramblings.

* * *

A Lonely God

Gaara understood his perspective had always been a bit off. And it was _not_ because he was short.

He first realized the discrepancy the day he learned that the people he thought were looking down at him with scorn were, in fact, looking up at him in fear. Yes, there was hatred in their hearts for his existence, but it was built upon foundations of terror—terror for what they held dear, whether it be their possessions, their lives, or their power.

As a child, it had been a dizzying frame shift, feeling their keen horror slide from something he regretted and endured into something he relished in. After Yashimaru's death _(betrayal, _a voice had hissed in his mind), the last lingering desire he had to be accepted as equal was torn to dust. In his heart, his self-worth ascended to its place _above _them, and from this distance his eyes beheld them for what they truly were: lambs for the slaughter.

For years he stood alone atop his pedestal, the lives of others little more than meat for the grinder of his ferociously growing strength, until another disorienting event jumbled his worldview.

At the Chunnin exams, he had crushed and maimed his way through the darlings of Konoha's up-and-coming ninja only to be brought low by their trash, Uzumaki Naruto. Widely considered a screw up (and _worse_ for the familiar scent of demon was on this boy as well), Uzumaki had dredged up the power within himself to defeat the container of Shukaku, whom the people of the Sand regarded as a God.

For the first time in a long time, he had to crane his neck so see. On the forest floor, covered with blood, he stared up a boy who was himself look down on by the dregs of the world. The incongruity, the sheer backwardness of it all was enough to give him vertigo.

What is more, it was enough for him to refocus his perspective. It had been the crucial pivot that led to his appointment as the Kazekage. It had been the moment that had, inevitably, led him to this field, where he sits in a haze produced by so much more than simply death.

"Everyone came running to save you!" says Naruto, who should be dizzy from the optical illusion of the scene in front of him, but is not.

His eyes cannot help but widen in the effort to perceive his surroundings in a way that will not give him motion sickness. Standing in hordes around him are the people of the Sand (_my people_, says a voice, and he realizes with a start that it does not belong to Shukaku), and though their faces are angled towards the ground where he lay, it is clear that they are looking _up_ at him; their fear _of_ him having been melted into fear _for_ him, which itself was burning away into joyous relief on their faces.

And to make his lightheadedness yet worse, he could not even tell where his own eyes gazed. Up at them with wonder—with the eyes of the child he never was? Down at them with benevolence—with the eyes of a true hokage? Or past them, to the future—a place so much brighter than the past?

His heart felt swollen in his chest, as if expanding to fill Shukaku's absence, and he silently accepted that he would spend the rest of his life dizzy if made his outlook a bit more like that of Uzumaki Naruto.

* * *

Author's Note: I got dizzy myself writing this. Please let me know if I only imagined this made sense.


End file.
